


Little To No Value

by dramatisecho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Birthday, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Gifts, Kidlock, M/M, Memories, depressing childhood, the holmes brothers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:44:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramatisecho/pseuds/dramatisecho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets a gift for his 3rd birthday from Mycroft. His father doesn't approve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little To No Value

 

Mycroft had gotten it for him on his third birthday.

Relatives and immediate family had gathered at the Holmes mansion to shower Sherlock with gifts for the celebration. Of course, given the scale of the event, and the pristine dress and social code, the party was more for his _parents_ than for him. But the boys were used to that by now. Mycroft had quietly taken him aside after dinner, and presented him with a book. It was called ‘Corduroy Bear’. And whilst the clever, sophisticated and calculating family went on with their evening, Mycroft had sat in the upstairs study with his little brother in his lap, and read him the book _._

Sherlock was immediately captivated by it. He had particularly liked the ending, where the young girl had declared, _“I like you the way you are…”_ to the damaged bear. The bear, in turn, said: _“You must be a friend. I’ve always wanted a friend.”_

It was lovely. It had made Sherlock feel happy and hopeful… maybe even a bit anxious. A friend sounded like a wonderful thing. Someone who could sew your lost buttons back on and give you a hug if you needed it. He'd never owned a book like Corduroy before. He'd inherited all of Mycroft's older books, which were not so much for pleasure as they were for practical use; science and literature, mathematics and other things. Sherlock liked learning, but at the age of three, some of the things his father and tutors attempted to instruct him in were still a bit over his head, despite being very intelligent for his age. So this book was something new. Something unknown and he'd found he quite enjoyed it.

They stopped by Sherlock's room to put the book in there for safe-keeping (he chose to put it on his nightstand, intent on reading it again when he went to bed), before heading back downstairs to join the rest of their family. The brothers then made their rounds at the insistence of their parents; Sherlock thanked everyone for their gifts, and the intelligent Holmes boys were paraded back and forth to display their cleverness and genius to the praise of their extended family.

By the time the celebration was over, Sherlock was rubbing his eyes and complaining to Mycroft that he was tired. Their mother was still busy bidding farewell to everyone, so, he picked up his little brother and carried him upstairs to his room.

What neither had expected... was to see their father standing in there, with a thunderous expression on his face. “Leave us, Mycroft.” he instructed crisply.

Sherlock couldn't be certain, but it felt as if Mycroft hesitated for a moment; as if he was reluctant to let him go. He did, however, obey (Mycroft _always_ obeyed), and left the room. Turning his large, icy blue eyes up to his father, Sherlock wrung his small hands together a bit nervously. He wasn't really sure _what_ was wrong... until he saw the book Mycroft had given him in his father's hands.

He frowned, “My book?...” Sherlock's small voice inquired.

“It's not a _book_ , Sherlock.” His father snapped, taking a few steps forward. “It's a waste of time. A distraction. It's a nonsense children's story, and has nothing of value inside. The sooner you realize that there's very little to be gained with things like this... the more successful you'll be.” he grumbled, beginning to rip the book into separate pieces.

He dropped it onto the floor... and Sherlock's eyes stayed glued on it.

“You're a Holmes. You need to remember that.” His father muttered, stepping past him. “Now go to bed. You've early lessons tomorrow, and you've had enough time for frivolities this evening.”

The older man left, ignoring the fact that his son was still staring sadly at his damaged book. Eventually, the boy snapped out of his daze, and willed himself not to give in to the more emotional instinct to cry about his destroyed gift. He got changed from his little suit, and slipped into the large four-post bed. The boy tossed and turned for about two hours, but still found he was unsettled and a bit upset.

He crawled back out of bed, and sneaked out of his room to venture down the dark hall to Mycroft's room. When Sherlock reached it, he didn't even bother knocking, and instead just pushed his way in and closed the door behind him. As expected, Mycroft was reading at his desk.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock huffed, taking big (almost jumping) steps over toward his desk, “I need another book.” he explained.

His brother, however, didn't look at him. “No, Sherlock.”

“What do you mean _no_?” the child pouted, draping himself over the arm of Mycroft's chair, poking his arm, “Father ripped the other one so I-”

“I said _no_ , Sherlock.” his older brother barked more firmly, startling Sherlock a bit. It was then the boy noticed. Mycroft had a bruise discolouring his otherwise pale cheek. He didn’t look down at Sherlock, but rather, simply stared hard at the pages of his book. “It was wrong of me to get you that book. It’s a waste of time, and juvenile stories like that will not help you in the future.”

Sherlock's lower lip trembled slightly, though he tried to keep the pout on his lips. “M-Mycroft.” he frowned.

“Go to bed.” The older instructed.

The curly haired child grit his teeth together, finally giving in and allowing the tears to fall, before he gave Mycroft an angry shove with his small hands – and tore out of the room. Mycroft sighed and closed his book; a guilty wave crashing over him.

“...I'm sorry, Sherlock.” he whispered to himself.

 

 

 

 

“Sherlock?” John's voice pulled the detective out of his thoughts.

John was staring at him with an amused smile on his lips. Apparently, Sherlock had been staring at a children's book on the shelf of the bookstore they were in for a good fifteen minutes. “You going to get it or not?” he teased lightly. They'd ventured in to browse a bit on their way home, and John had already purchased a book that was now tucked beneath his arm.

“Don't be absurd.” Sherlock scoffed, straightening up a bit and walking away from the display. “Children's books have little to no value. They are not essential in one's development. Simply a luxury. A waste of time. Now, come along. There are a few experiments I've been thinking of and I want to get a start on them before you force me to eat something for dinner...”

John watched him sweep back out of the store, before turning his attention back to the bookshelf. “Corduroy Bear.” he said the titled aloud to himself. He glanced back in the direction Sherlock had gone off in, before picking up the book and purchasing it at the register.

He was sure he could justify the gift. The detective's birthday was coming up soon... it might be a fun little gesture. Certainly not something Sherlock would suspect. Of course he knew there was a good chance the detective would just toss the book out. So, John planned to write a little note inside...

 

 

Four weeks later, they celebrated Sherlock's birthday.

John gave Sherlock the book, and to his surprise, an odd expression fell over the genius' face; a thoughtful glint in his eyes, similar to what John had seen him express in the bookstore. He muttered some quiet insults about the pointlessness of the book, but turned it over in his hands carefully - as if it were something a bit precious, before he flipped through the pages.

He suddenly thanked John, and in a rush, disappeared into their room. He was a little worried when Sherlock didn't emerge for another couple hours.

When he finally went to check on him, he saw the detective lying on his side, book in hand, reading it to himself. John smiled and moved into the room, slipping behind Sherlock on the bed to wrap his arms around his partner.

" _I like you the way you are_." John read the line aloud.

Sherlock let out a breathy laugh, and read the next one himself, " _You must be a friend. I've always wanted a friend_."

He didn't turn to look at John.

Nor did he need to express how much the gift meant to him...

Nor give an explanation as to _why._

His free hand, however, found John's, and gave it an affectionate squeeze. John, in turn, placed a light kiss on the back of Sherlock's head, buried amidst his soft black curls... and he knew the message was received.

**Author's Note:**

> Just couldn't get this ficlet idea out of my head. So ta-da. A little one shot. It's not perfect, just a bit of angst and fluff. Enjoy! x


End file.
